Warlocks of West Hollywood : The Newcomer

by J. S. Crowley

  Warlocks of West Hollywood

  The Initiate

  by J.S. Crowley

  Warlocks of West Hollywood

  The Initiate

  A work of erotic short fiction

  by J.S. Crowley

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2017 by J.S. Crowley

  Cover Design © 2017 by Matt Davis

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author/publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  About The Author

  Caleb

  1

  I’m bent over my sofa, jockstrap around my ankles, and the mover is on his knees, tongue between my ass cheeks and his hand stroking his cock. My moans echo through the newly-unpacked apartment, both of our dicks dripping in anticipation of him fucking me until the neighbors know his name.

  At least, that’s what we’re doing in his mind.

  The truth is I’m currently unpacking dishes while he and the other mover lug a sofa into the living room. Well, living room/bedroom. The joys of Los Angeles, right?

  The mover in question watches me from the corner of his eye, which is probably dangerous since the sofa is heavy but whatever, he’s a pro, just as I’m a pro at reading minds. Not that this guy is hard to read—I could tell he wanted me before I even let myself skim his thoughts. Once I saw what he wanted to do to me, however, it was a whole different game.

  Being psychic has definite perks.

  Especially because now, I’m doing everything I can to feed his flames.

  Like bending over and popping my ass up so my tank-top slips and the band of my lime green jock shows.

  It’s like fireworks in his mind the moment he sees that. Suddenly he’s mentally slipping himself inside me while sniffing my jock and oh—interesting—the other mover is in the corner watching and jerking off now. So the guy has an exhibitionist fetish too. This could be a lot of fun.

  “Here,” I say, putting down the dishes. I make eye contact with the mover, whose nametag reads DEREK. I flick my eyes down to his crotch. “Let me show you were I want that.”

  More fireworks. I can practically feel the guy’s cock bulging in his briefs. I bite back a laugh and help them move the sofa to the corner.

  I’ve been in Los Angeles for less than two days, and even though the rent is ridiculous and it’s hot as hell, it’s already living up to expectations: my phone buzzes constantly from cruising app notifications, and on my morning walk to grab some coffee I was checked out by at least a dozen guys. Sure, my studio is small and costs twice what I paid for a two-bed in Chicago, but the men in West Hollywood are hot and eager and—from what I’ve gathered so far—ingenious in their perversions. I’m going to have a lot of fun here.

  Specifically, right now.

  “Could you help me with this?” I ask Derek. The other mover goes out to the truck to get another box. I point to an opaque plastic tub in the corner that I could totally lift by myself. I’m already smiling inside.

  “Sure thing, boss,” Derek says.

  “It’s Caleb,” I reply. I give him my most winning Midwestern smile and pat him on the shoulder. I let my grip linger. “But boss works, too, depending on the situation.”

  And then, just for fun, I slip a little vision into his mind—him on his knees in front of me as his smiling lips slip over the head of my dick, my fingers laced through his wavy hair commanding him to go deeper. I’ll be your boss all night.

  He moans, then covers it with a cough.

  “Where do you want it?” he asks.

  Everywhere, I whisper in his thoughts.

  “Just over here,” I say.

  I let go of his shoulder. In order to insert thoughts like that, I have to have made contact with a person. Which means I’ve gotten really good at small touches when flirting.

  I bend down and grab one side of the box. He grabs the other. His eyes never leave me. I’m wearing a tank top and shorts, and even though I’m not beefy like he is, I’m lithe and tan and smooth. Everywhere.

  And I make sure he visualizes that, too.

  For the record, I can’t just throw images into people’s brains at will. Just as I can’t coerce them into doing something they don’t want to do. They have to want it. Their brain has to be, well, fertile. Otherwise it just doesn’t work. I’m not some sort of monster; I’m just good at helping guys realize what they truly want. And Derek truly wants me. Thankfully the feeling is returned—being psychic has drawbacks, too. Insta-rejection before you even talk to a guy sucks.

  We move the box all of five feet.

  When we set it down, I make sure to accidentally pop off the lid.

  “Oops,” I say. Also for the record, I did not move out here to be an actor. As is evident.

  The lid topples off, revealing my prized collection of dildos and lube, harnesses and cuffs and rope. Every size and taste of kink, all carefully packed and now on display.

  He goes red. His cock bulges against his khakis.

  The guy is hot, in a scruffy, burly sort of way. Grizzled beard and chest hair sticking out of his t-shirt, thick biceps and a thicker dick. He’s got hands that could pin my arms behind my back or curl around my neck while he presses me into the bed. Hands that could handle any one of those dildos and keep me subservient at the same time. I don’t have to insert those thoughts—his mind is going haywire with daydreams.

  For a moment we just crouch there, both staring at the box of toys, his mind flicking through all the ways he could use them on me, and me smiling wider with every thought he creates on his own. When we make eye contact, I don’t look away.

  “Looks like you discovered how I spend my free time,” I say.

  My chest is hot with the thrill of the chase, at the anticipation. I can feel my own dick harden and my breath quicken in response.

  I can’t create chemistry, either, and that’s why this is so intoxicating. Everything he wants to do to me, I want him to do to me, and I feed in a small thread of that assurance into his thoughts. It’s been nearly a week since I got laid, and I want him inside me like nothing else.

  Then the other mover comes in, and I slide the lid back onto the box.

  When I stand, I make sure that Derek can see my erection. Just as I make sure he sees me noticing his.

  “I think that’s everything,” the other mover says.

  Derek practically whines.

  “Thanks for the help, guys,” I say. I brush past Derek and shake the other guy’s hand. He leaves, and then I turn to my catch.

  We shake hands.

  I let my grip linger, slowly slide my gaze from his crotch to his eyes.

  And slip in one little idea, the seed of a thought: him dropping by later and fucking me until the sun rises. His cheeks color. His cock bucks. Clearly the seed took hold.

  “See you around,” I say.

  He nods. Swallows hard.

  “Welcome to WeHo.”

  2

  There’s only one problem with WeHo: I don’t know anyone here.

  I moved to LA to get into screenwriting—I mean, I spent most of my adult life reading sce
nes in people’s heads, so it was sort of natural to transition to writing them out. And yeah, okay, there were other reasons to move here. Like the crazy ex-boyfriend who was convinced we were going to get married because I gave him A+ head in the back of his car, or the already-overfished pool that was the Chicago gay scene. There’s really only so many times you can see the same faceless torsos on an app or the same coked-out kids in a bar before you start getting depressed. I’m sure there are a few people from my past who’ve moved out here, but I never tried reaching out. I prefer a fresh start.

  And so, here I am—without any old faces to tie me to an old version of myself. Time for reinvention.

  The first item on my list is to go out. It’s Friday night, after all, and even though a part of me just wants to get laid, the rest of me realizes I should probably start pulling together a social life. I need friends just as much as I need fucks.

  Friends I can fuck would be even better.

  So I shower and get ready and put on a thin pink tank top and tight white shorts that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. Gods bless whichever genius mixed spandex and denim. I stare in the bathroom mirror for a while, wondering if I look like I belong here or if I look like a tourist. I’d gone tanning the last few months and had been hitting the gym daily—my skin is bronzed and I can see the faint lines of my abs through my shirt and the press of my nipple piercings. I rub my hands over the V of my hips, pull down my shorts just a little so the elastic of my jock (another one. I have many) shows. I have a few tattoos—some birds over my hips, a band around my forearm, a rune behind my right ear. Just enough to be edgy and accentuate my lean muscles and bubble butt. It’s not vanity—it’s appreciation of hard work. This body didn’t come naturally.

  Hah. Speaking of coming naturally, I wonder if Derek will drop by. Maybe I should leave the door unlocked, just in case…

  Finally, before I can convince myself to stay home and wait for him, I throw some condoms in my wallet and head out the door.

  My place is in walking distance to everything—cafés and cheap groceries, a park where I can pretend I like jogging but actually just watch the ‘local wildlife.’ Most importantly, though, is that I’m only a block away from the main drag of gay bars.

  I walk down Santa Monica Boulevard and dip my toe in the collective consciousness.

  The leather daddies across the street with their hands down each others pants are dreaming of a dungeon a few blocks away that I know I need to check out. The gaggle of twinks in front of me are already thinking about the orgy they’ve been invited to out in the Hills. The ottery boys in harnesses and denim with septum piercings and tattoos smoking outside the nearby bar are thinking up drag names and wondering if the jock who just walked in can deep throat.

  Everywhere I turn are men, their minds racing with possibility. And yeah, there’s definitely a prevalence of tank tops and polos and preppiness, but since I’m similarly dressed I can’t really throw shade. Besides, these guys are dreaming up devious things that belay their apparently clean-cut demeanors. And I’m right there along with them.

  It’s intoxicating, and there’s a part of me that could stay on the street all night, just listening in to people’s fantasies so I can jerk off to them later. But that’s not the plan. Not tonight.

  Instead, I tune into the volume of fantasies, wending my way down the street, past food vendors and bachelorette parties, heading toward the highest concentration of queer dreams.

  It doesn’t take long to find.

  The place looks like an old Spanish church, with a huge outdoor courtyard and wide-open indoor spaces lined with booths and tables, gogo dancers gyrating on pretty much every available surface. The music is thick and men (and women) crowd together, drinks in hand and bobbing to the rhythm. I smile and turn off my awareness of their thoughts before I get overwhelmed.

  I don’t need to be psychic to know that I’ve hit the jackpot.

  I squeeze in, brushing past men, letting touches and grins linger here and there. Some guys pass me over completely but whatever, I’m not to everyone’s tastes and the number of admiring looks I’m getting far outweighs the rest. I go to the nearest bar and lean against it, signaling down the hot shirtless bartender for a drink. He doesn’t notice me right away, but then again, the bar is packed.

  In the back of my mind, I wonder if I’ll actually see Derek The Mover tonight… It’s always a toss-up planting seeds like that. Sometimes the guy follows through, but honestly, most of the time they chicken out.

  That’s when I see him.

  Not Derek.

  No, this guy is in an entirely different class.

  He leans against the bar, facing the entrance and thus me, his finger slowly tracing the rim of his glass in a way that makes my cock go hard.

  I don’t know what it is that makes him stand out, but he does. It’s like all the lights in the club are drawn to him, like he just attracts the glow and the attention. He’s tall and thin, with angular features and blond hair. No tattoos. No piercings. Innocent in a way. But even from here I can see the blue of his eyes and the coy sharpness of his smile. And those lips. Oh, the things those lips could do.

  He’s in white. Simple white shirt, tight pale jeans covered in zippers and artistic rips.

  The moment I see him I know he’s what I came here to find.

  I glance to the guy next to him and maybe it’s petty but it’s clear the dude’s out of blondie’s league. I mean, he’s hot in a generic sort of way, but the moment I look back at the blond guy I’ve already forgotten what the dude he’s talking to looks like.

  “What do you want?” the bartender yells to be heard over the music.

  Him.

  “Gin and tonic,” I yell back.

  He pours my drink and I pay, but the whole time I’m in a daze, watching the blond guy’s mannerisms, the small grin and forced laughs. I can tell he’s bored.

  But, before I fall flat on my face in front of such a beautiful man, I open my senses to find out how bored.

  The club is a mess of minds and thoughts around me, but I hone in, focusing like I’ve trained myself to do.

  I can’t find him.

  I try harder, thinking maybe I’m just off my game—there are too many people about, or their thoughts are too loud, or something. But even though I strain my senses, I can’t get a read on the guy. I can hear the bartenders’ bored buzz beside him, can sense his date’s enthusiasm and dreams of what they’ll do together later that night.

  The blond guy, though, is a dead zone. Not even like a void: I can feel him there. There’s just a wall around his thoughts.

  I’ve never experienced that before.

  It’s like he knew I’d be trying to dip a toe in his mental waters, and was prepared for it.

  Could it mean…?

  He raises his eyes from his glass and looks at me, smiling. And winks.

  3

  “I’m Caleb,” I say.

  I’d waited at the bar for a good ten minutes, hoping for an opening and drinking another gin in the process. A few guys had tried coming up to me, but I only had eyes for blondie. Especially since he had definitively not looked my way since that initial wink.

  Playing hard to get, which only made me harder.

  “Parker,” he says.

  “You can do better than him,” I say.

  His date went off to the bathroom, daydreaming about fucking this boy ten ways to Sunday.

  “And let me guess, you’re better than him?”

  I nod.

  “Guaranteed.”

  “Aren’t you cocky?”

  I smile. He’s smiling back. My dick is straining against my shorts and my chest is fire. It’s rare that I find a guy I want to fuck, but I want inside of this boy so bad it hurts. And then I want to ride him until he forgets everything but where our skin touches.

  “Just honest,” I say. “Can I get you a drink?”

  Parker looks toward the bathrooms. For a moment I fear he�
��s going to say no, that that’s his boyfriend or something, or that he’s not interested. I’m not used to going in blind like this, and I used up all my assurance in those first few pick lines.

  “Yeah,” he says after a moment. When he looks back at me, my heart leaps. Those lips... “But not here.”

  “You’re bailing on your date?”

  “I’m an opportunist,” Parker says. “Besides, he can’t afford me.”

  “Oh, you’re…”

  “More than you know,” Parker replies. He reaches out and touches my hand. “Does that scare you?”

  “What?”

  His smile widens and his eyes are so blue and I know it’s cliché but damn it I could fall into that gaze.

  “The fact that you can’t read anything, even now?”

  I gasp and flinch back, but he doesn’t let go of my hand.

  “How did—“

  He pulls my hand closer. Toward his crotch. His dick is hard and hot beneath my touch, and when my fingers curl around it, he inhales sharply, still smiling. I may have his dick in hand, but he has me caught in that grin. It’s clear in that moment that he is entirely in charge.

  “Can you read this?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I moan.

  “Good.” He leans in and his breath is hot on my ear. I can feel myself dripping precum. “Come, boy. You have a lot to learn.”

  Then he drops my hand and steps away, the distance between us an ache.

  When he walks out the bar, I know I have no choice but to follow.

  *

  “You’re new around here,” Parker says.

  The night air is cool in comparison to the club; I hadn’t realized how much I was sweating in there, or maybe it’s just the effect he has on me.

  “That easy to tell?”

  He just smiles. There are more secrets hiding in the corner of those lips than answers, and I want to bite up every single one.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.